


The bend and twist (ain’t it exciting?)

by reefofhappiness



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Knifeplay, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:55:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reefofhappiness/pseuds/reefofhappiness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s wrong and painful, but not deceptive – Dick gets that much out of this experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The bend and twist (ain’t it exciting?)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so as I continue to post old pieces I am obviously getting into the time period where I was just writing about non-con constantly…however this fic is actually a pretty old piece I wrote after digging around a defunct batman meme for ideas. It’s not really set in a specific comic verse or arc or anything, and honestly I didn’t even have a set idea for how old Dick is -- though I'm tagging this for underage just in case. Anyway it’s 100% non-con, discusses knifeplay, and has the threat of bloodplay (maybe? barely??). This is probably my oldest comics fic, actually. So there's that.
> 
> Ah, if you have never seen a soft cheese knife before you should totally google image that, as those suckers are terrifying to look at.

Dick could cry, any normal person probably would be doing that right now, but he won’t – because he’s no normal person, after all. He’s been in kidnap and hostage situations in attempts to bait out Gotham’s Dark Knight, he’s been nearly strangled to death, he’s almost drowned, been beaten an inch within his life, _shot_. He can handle this.

This determination doesn’t stop the strangled noise in his throat from reaching Joker’s ears.

“Aw, is baby bird not okay?” He croons. His tone would be deceptively sympathetic, except Dick knows better than to be taken in for even a second. There’s nothing deceptive about the irony of his tone or about the twist of his fingers as he pushes the knife hilt in a bit deeper. It’s wrong and painful, but not deceptive – Dick gets that much out of this experience.

“W-when I get out of here – ” Dick starts, not meaning to stutter but, just, the hard wood is not at all forgiving, just burningly stretches him raw open.

“Hm, Robbie boy, what? When you get out of here _what_?” Joker pushes the knife blade down so the handle is jutting up awkwardly, painfully angled inside of Dick.

He sucks in breath and can’t think for a second. As the white at the edges of his vision fades he realizes, over the pounding in his ears, that Joker is still talking, still taunting.

“ – and anyway, whoever said anything about you leaving alive? That all depends on just how,” he pauses to reach up with his free hand and trace a finger along the line of the Robin mask. “ _Charitable_ I’m feeling. Enough to do this to just Robin Boy Wonder? Or not at all and willing to make it more, shall we say, personal?” His nail cuts into the skin of Dick’s cheek, leaves a red, wet crescent.

The main problem here is that Dick isn’t sure if Joker knows that he’s Dick Grayson. But he can’t, right? Then he would for sure know that Batman is Bruce Wayne, and Joker wouldn’t let that revelation lay in disuse…for long, anyway. Right? And if he does know and is just doing – doing mind games, has a bigger plan and this is just the start, then they are screwed if they don’t do something about it. Dick more so presently, but the main thing is Dick _doesn’t know_ , they don’t know anything about what Joker’s got going in motion behind the scenes and that’s a problem. 

So if he can just get out of this whole thing without Joker finding out who he is, then there won’t be any issues of new complications with what Joker does and doesn’t know and is pretending not to know and whose ass he’s shoving a knife up hilt-first at the moment. If he can get out of this alive then he can tell Batman and they can handle this before it gets out of hand.

“Do it,” Dick dares, a shadow of confidence in his words, he’s not fooling anyone here, but he’s not about to back down and play the coward. He’s already shut in the trap, naked, neck bleeding from earlier and knees chained tight in the stirrups; he’s not any closer or further from the risk of death here by not rising to the challenge. Maybe Joker will find it endearing. Who the hell knows? “I don’t need your charity, I can take your knife – ”

Joker has a look of utmost boredom on his face, so he remedies this apathy by yanking the knife hilt out abruptly. Dick gasps and finds himself clenching painfully from the chafing it causes.

“Hm,” Joker says, mock thoughtfully. “ _Hm_.”

Dick doesn’t like that sound. He also doesn’t like how Joker leans away and down and disappears from his sightline for a moment. From what he hears, it sounds like Joker’s rummaging around for something on a metal tray. Bad bad bad.

When he comes back into view, his smile is decidedly more twisted. There is a large knife in his hand – this one has a ridged long blade, saw-toothed and looks like it is for slicing hard bread. The handle is no wider than the last – but it is longer, harder, and shiny, made out of some kind of blend of metal and plastic, or stainless steel maybe. There’s no barrier between the hilt and the blade, just thin and expansive serrated metal warping fluidly into rounded block angles. That’s the scary thing, Dick can imagine how easy it would be for Joker’s fingers to ‘slip’ and…

“Should I use this?” The Joker really doesn’t ask so much as tease; he lays the flat of the blade on the inside of Dick’s thigh and laughs shrilly at how Dick starts a little at the cool contact. He pulls another out of seemingly nowhere – Dick thinks there must be a low table next to him, out of Dick’s limited line of sight and he wishes with all his might that he wasn’t cuffed down by the wrists, torso, and ankles to the cold metal surgical table. That he wasn’t with every finger pinned down and both knees forcibly bent up in points and feet pressed flat on the table. He tries to struggle against his bondage and just feels the muscles in his back tighten at the strain, he can’t move or wiggle or acrobat his way out of this hold without breaking something – like his back – and seriously, Joker’s done his research on how to pin a guy down. 

Dick eyes Joker and how he’s wielding the new knife – this one looks oddly two-pronged. It consists more of empty space than metal, but the sharpness and frame of a knife is there and the blade of it is rusty.

“This one’s for soft cheese,” Joker explains simply, gleefully. “And, boy, wouldn’t I just love to _slice some right up_.” He cackles (Dick refuses to respond, to react, to move) and places the two pointy little ends, gently, tenderly, right at Dick’s entrance.

It’s terrifying, really, because all he’d have to do is push. Push a little bit forward and Dick would be bleeding, insides ripped to shreds if Joker thought to thrust and make Dick writhe and involuntarily press against the immovable framework of the knife.

“Do it,” Dick whispers, dares a second time, despite his fear, because he’ll never say _please no_ to Joker. His voice is hoarse and his knees are trembling, but he doesn’t think to back down, not even for a second.

Joker stares at him, expressionless and gauging, and Dick stares back. He only blinks when Joker presses the saw blade of the bread knife on his thigh into his skin, drawing an uneven line of blood. He drags that knife across Dick’s thigh, cutting shallowly into it as he pulls it off and away and throws it behind him.

“Well well,” Joker hisses with gritted teeth in what might be a smile mixed with fury, but he pulls the soft cheese knife away too. He bends over out of sight again, rummaging, and before he reappears in Dick’s sightline he briefly presses gloved fingers to Dick’s entrance, pressing crudely and roughly to the irritated skin and spreading him open as far as he’ll go. Dick sucks in air but stays still, stays still when Joker’s fingers are gone and he’s back, holding two knives, one in each hand.

“Listen up, Minibat,” Joker says, voice a leisurely drawl. “I’m about to teach you a thing or two about knives. This one,” he holds up a wide and flat curved knife. “Is called an Ulu. Not too sharp or threatening, but, ah, you know.” He accents his vagueness with sharp laughter and thrusts in the air, which is the thing that makes Dick blanch. He stares at just how wide and clunky the handle is horizontally as Joker waves it in the air. That would stretch him too far, that would make him bleed too much and his system would go in shock probably from the trauma, he’s been taught to shut down to deal with things he absolutely can’t handle. And that is exactly what Joker’s point is: he absolutely _can’t_ handle this.

Joker full out cackles and then holds up the other knife, “This one is just a cleaver, not incredibly creative or anything. I do like the way it makes me feel, though. _Chop chop_ and all that.” He swings the cleaver around, metal blade shining in the low light. Suddenly he leans in, right in Dick’s face and there’s too much skin on skin in this moment, Joker has layered himself on top of Dick and it’s just not okay.

“Maybe I’ll just chop you up and wrap you up in your spandex for Bats to find. Like a present. From me, to him. And from me to _me_ , too.” He laughs, slow and gloating, and licks a burning stripe up Dick’s cheek. After that he presses the flat of the cleaver against the heated patch of his skin, letting it cool, and edges the sharp blade closer and closer to Dick’s eye. And not until Dick shivers and looks away does he stop and take the cleaver away. He laughs and laughs and laughs, incessantly amused with having the upper hand over Robin Boy Wonder.

“So what will it be?”

Dick doesn’t answer. He doubts it really matters what he chooses – Joker’s got a plan and it’s clearly not getting derailed, and really, Dick wants it to just end already. He hates this helplessness, but another experiment in moving only stitches a muscle in his side. He considers all his options for dislocation, but everything’s pinned down. It won’t help either. He’s trapped. But he’s standing his ground, staying stubborn and keeping his pride, even as the likelihood that Joker is going to give Dick a fair chance to live dwindle by the second.

He closes his eyes against the shadows and the pain and Joker’s glinting smile. He lays there and lets those gloved fingers stretch him unbearably open once again, flinches against the curved handle of that damn Ulu being slowly _slowly_ pressed into him, and hopes – hopes so desperately and so silently that the Joker won’t kill him.

 

-

 

When Dick comes to, he’s in an alleyway, deposited behind some cargo boxes. There’s a puncture wound from the injection Joker needled into Dick, after it was all over, and it throbs but the pain brings him around faster. Dick touches the hot patch of skin lightly, and he recalls the faint imprint of memories, of Joker cradling his heavy head and saying _Don’t scream now, after all that_ while lining the needle up with his vein and _This won’t hurt a bit – just gotta knock you out_ and _I’ll have to leave you somewhere where Bats can find you, hm?_ and…

And it is probably ridiculous, but right at this moment Dick is more concerned over if Joker _knows_. Their identities are important and. And it’s called dedication. It’s called concentration. 

(It’s also probably called denial.)

Dick files his trauma away to deal with later. Or maybe never; that’s a good trait working with Batman has taught him.

The alley, this part of town, Dick’s realizing as he struggles upright and to his feet, is familiar. It’s not right by the Batcave or anything, but it’s on the right side of the city. It’s close enough, and with Dick’s fresh new suspicions it’s too close for comfort. Coincidence, maybe? But he tries not to believe in coincidence because Bruce has taught him that paranoia pays off more often than not.

The initial spike of awareness of his surroundings starts to dim, and that makes way for the aches of his body to begin making themselves known. Dick can feel the skin rubbed raw all over, where his joints were pinned down and elsewhere. He has a limp and the rustle and brush of his uniform brings an embarrassing sticky wetness between his legs to his attention. How is he going to explain this to Alfred when he’s doing laundry? How is he even going to explain this to Bruce?

He can’t think about that. He’ll focus on safety precautions and paranoia. He’ll work on getting back to the Batcave first.

 

-

 

“Batman, I’m a few miles out from the Cave underground entrance, can you track down my location and meet me?” Dick relays over the comm link. There is empty static for a second.

“Why?” Bruce, blunt as ever, returns.

Dick swallows a sigh and presses onward. “I’m afraid I might be bugged. Bring a scanner, check me for detonators and transmitters and the like. I – I had a crazy night.” Understatement of the year, but not important.

“Is that what you call disappearing on patrol duty and not answering your link?” Bruce asks in a voice that comes as close to scolding as he will ever allow, “I cut my own patrol short to find you. I thought you were in danger.”

Dick almost laughs because there’s ironic and then there’s _cruelly ironically horrible_ and he just doesn’t want to be a part of this night anymore. He knows this is Bruce being worried and relieved at the same time, he thinks Dick is okay and so Bruce’s annoyed at him for dropping off the radar and worrying him in the first place. Again, the irony bites, steely and hard. 

“I _did_ get myself into a lot of trouble,” Dick admits as lightly as he can. “If that makes it any more excusable. Sorry.”

Bruce grunts. “Right. I’ll be there in a minute.”

 

-

 

The scan shows nothing. Dick makes sure keep his cape positioned so he can hide in it, but it’s the walk back that gives him away.

“You’re limping.” Bruce says simply. “What happened?”

Dick’s done enough stuttering for the day, so he simply doesn’t answer. This does nothing to lessen Bruce’s suspicion. He lets the silence lay where it has been awkwardly forced, but Dick knows once they’re back at the cave he won’t have much of any choice.

Alfred attacks Dick’s cut on his face with a wet cotton ball the instant the two enter, shaking his head. “What happened here?” He asks carefully, softly touching the side of Dick’s neck. Dick bites down a hiss of pain and only shrugs a little.

“Dick,” Bruce repeats himself, no nonsense, cutting off any coddling before it can happen. “What happened?”

“Joker,” he finally answers truthfully. “He injected me with something. But I don’t think it was any kind of laughing solution – it was probably just something to make me pass out.” He adds that last bit at the rigidity that takes hold of both Alfred and Bruce. Wait until they hear what he _did_ do, Dick thinks despairingly.

Bruce sends a coded look to Alfred, who nods and rushes off, probably to get some lab kit, some control group test results from a safety precaution experiment, something. “Get dressed in observation wear. We’re doing an all vitals checkup _now_.”

He turns without another word to start up the proper machines and Dick uses his distraction and Alfred’s absence as momentary comfort zones. He pads over to the wall with the medical gowns hanging neatly on hooks and, hiding best he can in the shadows, sheds his cape, shoes, and sticky uniform in a pile on the Batcave floor. He swaps for the gown quickly, then shuffles, quietly barefoot, over to the examination table. He can’t even care anymore as he climbs wearily onto the cold metal.

Time to come clean, and end this awful night.

**Author's Note:**

> Have I mentioned how increasingly and retrospectively uncomfortable I have grown with my "non-con era" -- or rather, the fact that I have an entire "non-con era" -- yet? No? Okay well now I have. I apologize in advance for the next, like, three stories.


End file.
